


heron

by cowboyflesh (cowboymeat), lambchops (lambmeat)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Barebacking, Breeding, Creampie, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:08:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29547009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboymeat/pseuds/cowboyflesh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lambmeat/pseuds/lambchops
Summary: McCree scavenges, picks up what he can; opportunistic. He’s been around quite a bit and isn’t one to settle down.Hanzo hunts. Unassuming, poised as demure and uptight, something to be taken apart and ruined and not the other way around.Allowing the gunslinger's broad palm to slip into his kimono, Hanzo turns and looks up at him with practiced pleasantry. A soft smile, toothless and submissive, as McCree’s eyes narrow at him. He grins hungrily, the lingering laughter still left on his lips as his attention is taken by the archer’s act.“Gettin’ to be late, why don’t we take this back to my quarters?” McCree drawls, soft and smooth as can be as he massages Hanzo’s shoulder, sweetening the deal.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Kudos: 100





	heron

Lips pulling back in a laughing snarl, shoulders bouncing with the deep vibrations in his chest, and keen eyes narrowing down at him, Hanzo merely meets his gaze with an equal look of hunger. The faintest smile tugs at his lips, a portrayal of triumph as he’s all but caught the coyote in his snare.

McCree, uncouth, brash, and loud, swaggers about the base as though he owned it on the premise of being a senior agent. Raised and reared by the founding hands of Overwatch, he treats the halls and facilities as is his. Not disrespectfully, no, but not tactfully. Similar to Reinhardt in how he is boisterous and brazen in his retellings of grand missions and near-death experiences, McCree demands certain attention to him. 

A touch of respect is demanded, but it is negligible whether he truly cares if he receives it or not. Hanzo did nothing more than scoff at him the moment he laid eyes on him, and the gunslinger did nothing more than grin, wicked and sharp like he saw a challenge. Perhaps he did, as he seems to have made it his game at whittling down the archer’s patience into a fine dust, something he can kick up.

Knicks about Hanzo’s height disparity, his aloof demeanor, and his old-style combat become commonplace. It feels like schoolyard courtship, and Hanzo sneers at it.

Those caramel eyes match his voice—thick and syrupy as they run over any irritation he creates. They soften around the edges as his gaze sweeps over Hanzo’s sharp figure, quick to return to his eyes if he feels the archer watching him. It passes off as admiration of his inkwork, and where it is afforded, McCree requests to get a closer look at the traditional tattoo with curious fingers dimpling his muscle as he holds his offered arm. It’s all a front, knowing full well that the coyote is viewing him as a hunk of meat and not as a predator.

McCree scavenges, picks up what he can; opportunistic. He’s been around quite a bit and isn’t one to settle down. 

Hanzo hunts. Tracking his target of choice, slowly working himself under their radar until he’s close enough without suspicion to sink his teeth in when it’s least expected. Unassuming, poised as demure and uptight, something to be taken apart and  _ ruined  _ and not the other way around.

Allowing the gunslinger's broad palm to slip into his kimono, sliding against the toned muscle of his back, Hanzo turns and looks up at him with practiced pleasantry. A soft smile, toothless and submissive, as McCree’s eyes narrow at him. He grins hungrily, the lingering laughter still left on his lips as his attention is taken by the archer’s act.

“Gettin’ to be late, why don’t we take this back to my quarters?” McCree drawls, soft and smooth as can be as he massages Hanzo’s shoulder, sweetening the deal. Hanzo acts as if he’s contemplating it for a moment, glancing at the clock on the wall and hesitating before turning back to Jesse. 

“If you’ll have me,” Hanzo says, voice deep and felt through McCree’s palm. The coyote’s lips curl over his canines as he scents a meal to be had. Hanzo smirks as watches the foolish triumph eclipses McCree’s prior timidity.

The walk from the base bar to McCree’s quarters is relatively long, spanning the entire width of the facility. There is an attempt at small talk on McCree’s part, although Hanzo is willing to play the eager doll act and simply smile and nod with darting eyes flickering between the gunslinger’s lips and his eyes. 

It takes less than five seconds for McCree to unlock his room door and shut it behind them before Hanzo was being pushed against a wall. Eager lips are on his, open-mouthed and excited. Snaking a hand beneath his ridiculous hat, Hanzo tangles his fingers in his messy locks and tugs sharply, ceasing the desperate kisses. McCree hisses, one eye sliding open lazily to peer at Hanzo with a hint of mischief and delight, taken in pleasant surprise by the bite to the archer’s play.

Easily, McCree shakes out of his grip and gets his brutish hands beneath Hanzo’s thighs, hoisting him up and pinning him to the wall with his bulk. 

Hanzo takes a sharp edge to his eyes, narrowed as he looks down at the gunslinger. Sliding his hands along his jaw, he cups McCree’s face and tilts him up. This time, Hanzo leads the kiss, and it is infinitely more graceful than the clash of teeth and tongue that McCree was charging for. Angling his head, he allows McCree to sweep his tongue over his bottom lip, but he offers nothing more until a frustrated groan claws out of McCree’s throat.

“Patience,” Hanzo whispers against his lips, a smirk tugging the corners up as all he receives is a frustrated huff.

Admittedly, the brutishness is appealing in some facet; he’d not feed into it knowingly, but it’s safe to say that McCree is the only man he knows that’s able to put a charming spin on bullheadedness. 

“Ain’t never been my strong suit.”

“I’m aware.”

Though the archer states it dryly, tone flat, it earns him a hearty chuckle from the cowboy. It vibrates in Hanzo’s sternum thanks to their proximity. Always so loud. Always has to take up the most space in the room. He narrows his eyes just so. He has no intent to scrutinize, but he can see McCree shrink somewhat under his gaze. 

From where they’re holding his weight against the wall, McCree’s fingers squeeze the meat of Hanzo’s thighs. An attempt to divert the attention from himself. Another sharp tug of his hair and he learns his lesson. 

“You’re going to listen to me,” the archer states, not necessarily in a mean way, but without any sugar-coating whatsoever. The shift in McCree’s demeanor immediately—from abrasive and wild to immediately tame—is entirely unexpected. 

Well, not immediately tame; he’d take some more thorough breaking to domesticate. But for their purposes, Jesse is very willingly under his thumb. Where his hands were meanly pulling McCree’s head around moments ago, they now soothe over the locks. Hanzo expected bronco breaking, but what he gets is more akin to coaxing a dog to perform tricks with the promise of a treat. 

“Jus’... tell me what you want.”

“Come here,” Hanzo says, leaning in for a proper kiss. As McCree meets him, it’s just as intense as their initial shared kisses and without most of the undignified wetness as tongues and teeth and lips clashed. It grows in fervidity as the cowboy edges on impatience, always one to push boundaries until they’re  _ just _ about to break. Each of them pull away panting and a thin string of saliva bridges their lips. 

They stay like that for a while, until Jesse’s arms finally give in and begin to tremble under the constant stress of supporting another man. He wraps his arms around McCree’s shoulders. 

“Take me to the bed.”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

“I didn’t come here for nothing.”

A good-humored huff of laughter hits Hanzo’s ears. It’s at this point that he wonders if the cowboy is capable of taking  _ anything _ seriously. Nevertheless, Jesse does as he’s asked, and the Shimada makes the bed dip with a creak as he’s set atop it. Peering up at the larger man, it’s clear how much his desperation has already taken hold—cheeks flushed, panting lightly, and erection fully tenting his sweatpants, he’s the simple definition of wanton hunger. 

It has been a while since the coyote has secured prey himself—or so he thinks. The cowboy is still under the impression that he has any semblance of control in this situation, though he’s soon to find out that that’s not the case. 

The archer beckons him forward. Obediently, he follows through, one knee slotting neatly between each of Hanzo’s thighs. 

“You’re going to fuck me, Jesse.”

Apparently unexpected, the bluntness goes straight to McCree’s cock. 

A shadow of desperate hunger crosses McCree’s face, and he’s leaning into Hanzo’s space, nosing his jaw and breathing hot against his neck. Hands gently settle on Hanzo’s thighs as the gunslinger invades his personal space, sliding against the worn fabric of the archer’s typical attire.

Hanzo allows for himself to be pressed against the bedding, finding himself pleasantly surprised at the cowboy’s self-control. A man of his caliber is not known for being particularly submissive, and while he tends to display himself as a typical stereotype of masculinity, McCree doesn’t quite bite and snap at the leash Hanzo is trying to control him with. He does bare his teeth and growl low in his chest as Hanzo takes his time unbuttoning his flannel, but he’s yet to bite the hand that feeds him.

“Hanners,” McCree breathes out, that ridiculous pet name he’s crafted for Hanzo heavy on his tongue as the flannel is pushed open, shrugged to his shoulders. Chest bared, Hanzo’s palms sweep across the supple swell of McCree’s chest, admiring the fine covering of fur, thumbs catching against his nipples as he gropes his pecs. It garners a short groan once it’s repeated, and Hanzo finds himself grinning to himself in thought. 

Perhaps McCree would prove to be some fun.

Pushing the other man to sit straighter, Hanzo reclines against the untidy bedding, swaddled in the mussied comforter and blankets. While such untidiness would ordinarily bother him, nowhere else is it reflected in the gunslinger’s quarters. His drawers are tucked in and decorated with various nick-nacks from different places around the world, and his floor is free of laundry and debris typical of his brother. 

Quirking his eyebrow at McCree, he offers a helpful hint as to what he’s looking for.

“Undress me.”

Whoever broke him in did well, as there is no hesitation in obeying orders. He easily shifts Hanzo about, strong hands lifting him up to delicately undo his kimono with ease. As soon as the tie around his torso is loosened and the fabric slackens across his frame and hangs off his shoulders, McCree is returning the favor in full. Cupping both of Hanzo’s pecs and groping them, he near-worships the archer’s body. Rolling his nipple lightly between index and thumb, it pulls a shudder from Hanzo, but nothing more, the Shimada stubborn and sparing in his reactions.

Diving down, McCree laves his tongue against the bud before suckling.  _ That  _ elicits a sigh, and Hanzo tangles his fingers in that famous mess of hair. Lips soft around the sensitive skin, his beard is also shockingly forgiving. Softer than what is typical, Hanzo finds that he doesn’t have to rush McCree’s mouth away from his chest in the case of beard burn. 

Paying attention to Hanzo’s full chest, one of McCree’s hands trails down to his waist. His fingers curl into the hem of his pants, testing the waters. Where he is, filled out and hard and trapped in his briefs, Hanzo twitches as those curious digits dip achingly close to his arousal.

“Go on,” Hanzo sighs, unsure whether it’s purposeful teasing or if Jesse is truly so oblivious to the effect he’s having on him. Either way, he obeys. He tugs the flowy fabric of his trousers down with Hanzo’s briefs, and his fingers immediately close around the archer’s length. It’s a shock to his system, at first, the way Jesse’s warm fingers immediately set to work. 

A sigh falls past the Shimada’s lips as he relaxes into the nest of sheets beneath him. His intent in bedding McCree wasn’t a romance, but rather to knock him down a few pegs. To shut him up. Right now, with his own fist clutching the blankets and the cowboy’s hand pumping him, he seems far from his initial plan. 

“Like that?” Jesse drawls. His eyes flick lazily from the astonishingly well-groomed cock in his hand to watching the other man’s expression. Smug. 

He  _ knows _ he likes that. Bastard. 

Hanzo fights the urge to buck his hips in time with the strokes, but can’t find it in him to obscure how his eyes roll as work-roughed fingers delicately work at his slit. Just enough stimulation to drive the archer up the wall. He stills McCree’s hand before it becomes too much to bear. 

Hungrily, he gives Jesse another once-over. For all of his efforts to dissolve some of the tasteless swaggering that the cowboy is wont to do, it seems that Jesse’s got  _ him _ right where he wants him. All the cowboy’s got to show for it is flushed cheeks and an impressive erection. Nevertheless, the man is eager to follow orders. 

“Use your mouth.”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice,” he winks (he pretends it doesn’t make his heart skip a beat like a teenage girl) and settles on his knees to do as he’s told. Hanzo at least does him the favor of moving to the edge of the bed. 

Maybe with his mouth full, he’d have less time to chatter. 

That tongue, skilled at working over Hanzo’s nerves, seems content to slide across the ventral vein of his cock and tease the crown of the head. McCree is astonishingly thorough in working over every inch of his cock, making sure to toy with his slit with the blunt tip of his tongue before kiss down the length and back up again. 

Threading his fingers through the cowboy’s hair, Hanzo allows him to worship his cock for just a few more seconds before he makes a tight fist and pulls. McCree’s eyes crinkle with the sharp pain before going half-lidded.

Of course, he’d like that, such a glutton for everything he’s given.

The message is received, and McCree takes the slackened grip on his messy locks as a sign to get on with it. His hot mouth envelops him with ease, but not for the size of Hanzo’s length. While average, the archer’s cock is deliciously fat and fills his mouth easily before it even reaches his throat. Swallowing him down, McCree breathes heavily through his nose and manages it all on the first go-around.

“Experienced,” Hanzo says bluntly, taking a jab at the other man’s supposed dominance. His voice comes through as taut, throat strained as he suppresses his noises of pleasure. The aim wasn’t to let it go to the gunslinger’s head. 

Pushing his head down and holding it before McCree can pull away for breath, he rolls his hips up into the wet heat of his throat. It constricts and rolls against him in waves as McCree swallows, working him over as best he can with his tongue. It’s heavenly, how simple the cowboy is to reduce to pliancy. 

Guiding him with his hand cradling the back of his head, Hanzo sets the rhythm himself. Painfully slow if just so stave off the gradual twisting of his stomach, he makes McCree take his length root to tip, again and again.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that McCree was getting off from his throat being used. Where his hands splay across the insides of Hanzo’s thighs, he sees them itch as though he wants to touch himself. Coupled with the furrow of his brows, the high flush of color on his cheeks, and the soft breaths coming through too loud to be from just breathing, he seems at peace with his position- knelt at Hanzo’s feet and doing as he’s told.

It’s not long before it becomes too much of a good thing, drawing color to Hanzo’s cheeks and his hips nearer to the end of the bed. Deep breathing, an effort to prevent giving McCree such satisfaction as making him cum first, can only do so much to negate the warm slickness enveloping his already overexcited cock. Not to mention the suckle of drool-slicked lips obscenely disrupting the still quiet of the room. 

Perhaps a bit rougher than necessary, he pulls the cowboy off of him just as the ache of holding off becomes unbearable. His insensitivity is well-received. It earns him a gasp from the gunslinger, poorly masked with a harsh throat-clearing, and a glazed-over flicker of defiance as a hand comes up to sweep the disheveled hair from his face. That insufferable smirk. Fool. 

“Done already?”

“No.”

A moment of tense silence passes as Hanzo pauses to consider how to go about this, eyes unmoving from Jesse’s. Despite his self-control, even he’s unsure if he could maintain his composure while taking the full brunt of the gunslinger’s unbridled libido face-to-face. Delicately enough to earn him a no-doubt teasing chuckle from Jesse, he fashions a nest of the miscellaneous blankets he’d been perched on, proceeding to lay on his belly instead. 

Whatever filthy comment that Jesse makes falls on deaf ears. Hit by a wave of musk trapped in the blankets—by all means, not unpleasant at all; earthy, even—it almost erases any ounce of domination in his body. It’s not quite enough, though. It’s easy to recall why he’s here in the first place as he feels hands ghosting over his clothes.

The touch is electrifying, bordering on irritating as it symbolizes a subtextual battle of wills. McCree insisting on his half-domination and Hanzo’s own determination waning by the second. 

Pulling himself back into orbit, he glances back over his shoulder at McCree. Already eyeing him like just another hole to fuck. Hanzo can sense his vision outlining where his ridden-up kimono kisses the midline of his thighs, and can just make out the swell of his erection in his pants. 

“You keep looking at me like that, McCree.”

Flushed, eyes darkened with hunger, McCree all but licks his chops as his hands slide up the backs of his exposed thighs. 

“How can I not?” he breathes, reverent as he plucks at Hanzo's remaining clothes. It’s a fading battle of wills as McCree grows more confident without restriction. 

Large hands, metal and flesh, sweep up the backs of his thighs to cup the supple swell of his ass. The bite of cold provided by his prosthetic is… not unpleasant and certainly not an offense to bear against him, especially as he feels himself be spread open and a rather curious tongue finds his hole. 

It takes more willpower than he cares to admit, restraining himself and withholding all enthusiastic noises while trying not to finish before he’s even pulled McCree from his jeans. It is hard, seeing as the other man has no qualms with eating him out, something he didn’t expect to be a problem for such a brutish bull like the cowboy. His tongue licks him open in excited strokes before pushing into him, coaxing him into welcoming the intrusive muscle.

“Enough teasing,” Hanzo barely manages to eke out, somehow calmer than what he feels. McCree obliges, pressing a vulgar kiss to his perineum before sitting straight. There is no need for such foreplay, however, Hanzo keeps it in mind for… future reference. For now, it is unnecessary, seeing as Hanzo went through the proper measures to prepare— having cleaned meticulously and stretched, he’s certain McCree has noticed the residual lube.

For the first time, he feels the gunslinger filled out and hard even through his jeans. Entirely fixated on the archer’s pleasure, he’s neglected himself and hasn’t popped his fly open yet. Those chaps that Hanzo silently scorn cup McCree in all the right places, inspiring a slight change of heart about the whole cowboy get-up.

With strong, languid rolls, McCree grinds his hips down against Hanzo’s ass, before those broad hands leave his hips and finally free himself from his jeans. Cock blood-swollen and heavy, it sits against the swell of Hanzo’s ass, leaking precum liberally where he’s spread him open again. It causes a jitter of exhilaration to shoot up his spine as he feels the kiss of it against the ring of muscle, pressed in by the head of McCree’s cock.

_ Big _ — that’s all Hanzo can fixate on as McCree ruts dirty and slow.

“Are you going to... stare all night?” Hanzo says, voice low and husky, laced with irritation. All he gets in response to his dishevelment is a hearty chuckle. Guiding his cock, McCree slowly feeds Hanzo’s hole his length inch by inch, whistling lowly as the archer’s body simply takes it.

“Ain’t that a sight…” he breathes reverently, near entranced by the silken soft walls of Hanzo’s body tugging him in. Hanzo sighs evenly, a practiced noise as he simply shifts his thighs apart, welcoming the weight of his cock in his guts.

Even in all of his experience, he must consciously relax himself to fully seat the cowboy. Any tension would be uncomfortable as Jesse’s cock seemingly pierces right through to his belly, bordering uncomfortable if either of them shifts suddenly. 

As Jesse’s cock finally slides home, undoubtedly bulging the archer’s lower belly outward with his endowment, Hanzo is unable to keep himself from vocalizing his pleasure. All the discipline in the world can only do so much in the face of the prospect of being thoroughly used by the cowboy. A sigh of satisfaction from Jesse snaps the Shimada back to attention. 

Ever flexible, he keeps McCree from pulling back out by kicking his legs up, heels resting on the cowboy’s ass to keep him in place. 

“Tight,” Jesse says. There’s a hint of strain in his voice. He’s holding something back, not wanting the archer to sense weakness, or maybe trying to conceal how he’s worked Hanzo so thoroughly to mask how easily he’s about to blow his load. 

“Don’t— think  _ I’m _ the problem,” Hanzo grits out, borderline-overwhelmed by the sheer girth. His walls flutter and strain against the intrusion, and he’s required to take deep breaths to avoid tears pricking at his waterline. 

“You sayin’ you like my size?”

“Show me you know how to use it.”

“You got it,” he drawls, as though he were simply transacting with a bartender or a shopkeep, and not railing a Shimada. He pulls a breath from Hanzo as he pulls halfway out and seats himself again. 

Fists tight in the bedsheets. the archer obscures his face as he nearly bites through his lower lip to keep from crying out. 

It’s a burning ecstasy as McCree builds a steady pace, first a pain that then blossoms into a current flowing down to the tips of his fingers and toes. The bed creaks beneath them and the symphony of a shitty box-spring fill the air between them. 

A flinch makes the flesh of Hanzo’s back jump as he senses the gunslinger’s hands move—one holding him down by his upper back, and the other pulling his hips back to meet the thrusts. It’s a damn racket they make as they each chase their own highs. 

“Shit,” McCree pants, leaning back onto his haunches to watch Hanzo’s hole swallow his length greedily, “shame to ruin such a perfect ass.” He chuckles at his own words with a shadow of dark humor, his cool, prosthetic thumb petting Hanzo’s puffy rim as he slows to revere the sight. Every single drag of McCree’s fat cock is felt in full, just as every single inch plunged deep into his belly is going to be felt for days.

If only Hanzo had enough wits about him to scramble together to snap at the gunslinger and get him to shut his filthy mouth up. Instead, they’re all spent stupidly drooling and groaning into McCree’s comforter.

“Ain’t so high ‘n mighty now, huh?” McCree puffs, both of his hands massaging the generous globes of Hanzo’s ass before his comparatively gentler human hand comes down hard. It elicits a little gasp, and Hanzo smothers his face in the drool-damp sheets if just to obscure his ridiculous sounds and reactions.

Having his thighs pinned to the bed by McCree’s body weight, he can’t do anything but moan, deep and gutted like a whore, to try and spur McCree into hurrying along. Content to simply watch himself stuff Hanzo with his length, he ignores that little plea in favor of catching his breath.

He wants it good, he’s gonna get it.

Settling down, draping his hot weight across Hanzo’s back, and bracing on one elbow besides the archer’s shoulder, McCree groans as he pushes the limits of Hanzo’s body by grinding himself in deep and dirty. Shivering at the stretch, certain that McCree’s going to fuck right into his belly, Hanzo can’t spare a single thought to holding the tatters of his dignity together as he whines, whistling and reedy.

“Easy, now,” McCree all but growls in his ear, “gonna breed ya up nice and full.”

Hanzo moans and nods into the sheets, only aware of the quickening push and pull of McCree’s hips. He fucks like a bull over a breeding mount, his breath loud and hot against the shell of Hanzo’s ear and his hips slapping heavily against the backs of the archer’s thighs with deep, piercing thrusts. 

A garbled groan escapes Hanzo as each thrust pushes the air from his lungs. Already, the tightening in his belly, that had been pulled taut with McCree’s skilled mouth before falling slack in the interim between there and now, is stretched to the point of snapping. Each snap of his hips wraps it tighter between McCree’s fingers like a garrote, constricting Hanzo’s throat until all he can utter are pathetic whimpers and open-mouthed groans.

All it takes is the sharp tug of McCree’s fist threading through his perfectly groomed hair, ruining his pristine image as a yakuza heir as he cums against the bed sheets like a young babe in her first time. No grace or beauty as he growls gutturally as though he has been mortally wounded, his hips buck wildly, fucking against the blankets and back into the force of McCree’s thrusts in his delirious high.

The resulting fluttering of his hole around McCree’s length makes the cowboy above him groan appreciatively, never slowing for a second. Sinfully tight in the throes of pleasure, he milks McCree even as his body sags into the comforter as nothing more than a pretty hole to fuck.

“Shit,” he swears as his legs shift to splay wider, ankles digging into the bed for better leverage, “pretty l’il thing.” The praise floats over Hanzo’s deaf ears as he pants reedily and groans into the heated air around them, head pulled back taut by the mean ponytail McCree has grabbed.

The bull keeps pounding into him, stamina seemingly endless as Hanzo’s body screams in overstimulation, white-knuckling the sheets and vocal cords fraying as he dissolves into frantic, hoarse cries. He can feel, despite his nerves being shot and his entire body tingling with agonizing pleasure, the mess of slick and McCree’s plentiful pre escaping his abused hole and dribbling down his perineum.

Without warning, McCree grunts and drives home with a deep exhale. Sheathed as deep as he can possibly fit himself, he forces Hanzo’s legs wider apart with his own to steal those delicious fractions of an inch he’s been withheld. Emitting another low note as his balls draw up and his cock pulses, he spills into Hanzo’s guts and repaints his insides pearly-white. Those buttery-soft walls weakly bear down around him, drawing every last drop out of him until it’s more of a bother than a pleasure.

Sitting up and settling on Hanzo’s thighs, he chuckles low in his chest as he spreads the other man and admires the ruin he’s rendered. The archer protests such indecency with a soft grumble, hole twitching around McCree’s girth.

“There ya go, darlin’,” he drawls, thumbs playing with his puffy rim, tracing the stretched ring of muscle sweetly. “Full up.”

Hanzo sinks into the comforters, eyes fluttering shut as his eyelashes stick with overwhelmed tears and sweat. Content in his haze of post-orgasmic bliss, all energy wrung from his body, he only melts further into the soiled sheets as broad, work-calloused hands come to work over his shoulders and mid-back.

The bubble of peace is popped as the cowboy begins to pull out. Both vocalize their separate reactions in tandem, with Hanzo growling in loss as the fullness that weighed him down and sated him is slowly removed. As he pops free, all the cum that had been plugged by his length begins to freely spill down his perineum and balls.

A right mess the cowboy’s made of him.

Whistling lowly, McCree admires his handiwork by thumbing his seed and pressing it back into Hanzo’s tired hole.

“Happy, princess?” McCree hums. All he gets from the archer is a bothered huff and a toothless glare from behind the messy curtain of his hair. 

He offers nothing else but more noises of irritation as McCree easily rearranges his pliant body as though he were merely moving a sleepy house cat from one end of the bed to the other. Slipping beneath the covers, McCree nabs his cigar from his nightstand and lights it with a peace etched into his features, while he hugs Hanzo close to his side.

He’s comfortable enough to warrant his juvenile urges to stick around and cuddle. That, and he didn’t know if his legs would hold himself up if he were to try them. So he settles with an arm slung over McCree’s belly and his face buried in his unruly hair.

**Author's Note:**

> [lambchop's twitter](https://twitter.com/commanderbait)   
>  [cowboyflesh’s twitter](https://twitter.com/silverdynes)
> 
> a draft sitting, collecting dust, for far too long


End file.
